


Shut the Door and Turn the Key

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: By like twenty years, Coming Out, From 0 to 60 in less than no time at all, I've not changed much else, M/M, Modern AU probably, Mycroft and Greg are younger, Soft Smut Sunday, There's a bike, and a bath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 04:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15941945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: Greg is on his way to the pub when he notices a bike and a phone. It's a mystery that captures his attention more than the pub, but not more than the owner of bike and phone, who shows up panting and muddy.On sex and joy.





	Shut the Door and Turn the Key

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Harry Graham's poem The Bath](https://monologues.co.uk/Harry_Graham/Bath_The.htm).

Greg is cycling to the pub with some of his friends when he realizes there’s a bike lying on a street corner, the front wheel folded in half, with a phone right next to it. He brakes abruptly and swerves over to check it out.

“Fuck, Greg,” Marie shouts, but she follows him.

“Look, a phone, a bike, no person.”

“Yeah,” she says, “not our problem, let’s go.”

Greg looks around, there isn’t anyone that seems to belong to the bike. “You go, I’ll see if I can find whoever this belongs to and meet you there in a bit.”

She shrugs and fucks off, and he watches her go with a sigh. They’ve been sort of talking for weeks but judging by her mood she’ll be pulling tonight. Marie likes strangers. He knows he should care more, and can’t help himself. Now – what did they tell him about figuring out a crime scene?

Greg walks round the bike, looks up and down the empty side street, then picks up the phone. Cracked screen, which is to be expected, and the empty battery screen when Greg tries to turn it on.

The bike looks like it once was a nice bike, somewhere in the 60s maybe, and now it’s been loved a little too much. The seat is torn, it doesn’t have lights, and the spokes are all rusty. That explains what happens at least. Greg sits down next to the bike on a pole that’s fallen over, and thinks. Should he give the phone to the police? What’ll they do with it? The bike looks like a student bike, and the university is just around the corner, but what if this person isn’t a student? They could just be poor.

Greg has been overthinking it for maybe twenty minutes before he realizes that his phone is blowing up. The WhatsApp group has 92 messages he hasn’t seen, but the gist seems to be that three people are missing and they’re all moving to a club. Crap. He’s still deciding what to do about the bike and the phone, when a sweaty boy comes running up to him.

“Hey!” The boy shouts, but when he stops near Greg he’s leaning over and breathing hard. He’s extremely ginger and looks young to be in a university hoody, but then what does Greg know?

“Hey yourself,” Greg grins at him. “This your bike?”

“Ye-s,” the boy pants. “Is my phone here?”

Greg nods, “’s dead though.”

“ _Mhngh_.” The boy sinks down to a squat and leans his head on his knees. “Fuck.”

“What happened?”

“Bike broke,” a wheezing breath. “Got a ride with – someone to the field, told them I’d make it back here, realized – realized on my way that I didn’t have my phone.” The boy says. Pants. “Any way I could borrow yours? I don’t know how I’ll get home.”

“And then you’ll want a tenner for the taxi too?” Greg laughs, “can't help you there.”

“Shit,” the boy sighs, but he doesn’t look angry at Greg. Just really tired.

“I really don't have cash on me but I live just ‘round the corner,” Greg offers, “charge your phone there? Call an Uber?”

“Yes, that would work,” the boy stands up, wavers a little until Greg grabs him by the arm to steady him. “Thank you.”

“Is your bike a total loss, you think?”

The boy shoots Greg a look of total confusion, and Greg finally sees his pale grey eyes. Clever and so lost. “I have no idea. It's not even mine, I borrowed it from a housemate.”

“Let’s bring it then,” Greg hands the boy his own bike and picks the other bike up, hanging it from his shoulder by the saddle. “This way.”

The boy follows him, quiet and a little pale, and they really are close to Greg’s apartment which is a good thing. He might not have made it much further.

“I’ll lock mine up,” Greg says, “if you tie yours to that pole you can pick it up later and take it to a shop.”

The boy stumbles again, so Greg ends up doing it for him before steering him back inside.

“’M sorry about the stairs,” he says, kicking off his trainers while the boy takes off his running shoes far more carefully, sitting on the first step to undo his laces.

“That’s quite alright,” when did he get so posh? Do posh people always sound normal when they’re out of breath?

“I’m Greg by the way,” he offers his hand and the boy takes it, lets himself be pulled up.

“Mycroft,” he says, blushes, then looks Greg dead in the eye. _Did you expect me to make fun of your name, posh?_

“Pleased to meet you,” Greg grins, waving his hand in the general direction of upstairs. Which was a terrible mistake of course because Mycroft proves once again that runners wear too few clothes, too short shorts. His legs are muddy and so, so pretty. A little fuzzy, pale and lean. Greg wants to –

“This one?” Mycroft nods at one of the doors.

“That’s the bathroom,” Greg smiles again, “feel free to have a shower after we plug in your phone. The rest is here.”

Mycroft bites his lip a little and follows Greg into his other room, where he has a bed, a kitchenette and a sofa, as well as stacks of books and piles of clothes. He would apologize for the mess, but decides he likes Mycroft’s eyes flicking about to take everything in far too much to be sorry.

“Here?” Mycroft looks at where Greg’s charger is plugged in on the countertop and goes to connect his phone when Greg nods.

Greg’s phone starts ringing and he takes it out of his pocket to see _Marie calling_. “Have your shower, if you wish,” Greg suggests, before picking up, “I’ll make us a cuppa?”

“Yes _please_ ,” Mycroft groans and Greg thinks _does he not realize how sexual that sounds?_

“Hey,” he tells Marie, but he knows what’s coming. The music pounds out of his phone’s speakers, he hears her laughing.

“We’re done!” She shouts, and Greg grimaces.

“Alright, have a good night,” he tells her, and he hangs up. Stares at the phone. He really needs to stop doing this, there have to be people out there that want more than a good fuck against the bathroom door.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft says. “Bad news?”

“Marie’s a mate,” Greg realizes Mycroft needs a towel and finds him a clean one in a stack. “We were talking but now she’s called to tell me we won’t be anymore.”

“Oh,” Mycroft looks at him. How is he so pretty? Muddy and sweat-matted curls should not be such a good look on anyone. Frowning shouldn’t make him more gorgeous. Greg keeps his eyes from roving around, keeps his face from showing interest. “I’m really sorry for you. If it’s a bad time – ” He swallows. Awkward now, _you’ve made it awkward, Greg._ “If you wish to be alone?”

“No.” He really doesn’t care to be alone and Mycroft the pretty runner is hardly unpleasant company. “I’m fine, 's not the first time. Shower, rest a little. I’ll get you your tea.”

Mycroft smiles gratefully and disappears. The shower starts running almost immediately after. Greg boils water, makes two cups of his nice tea, and listens for the shower to stop. When the shower’s done but nothing else happens for a strangely long time, he decides to go check on Mycroft. He brings the tea.

“Mycroft?” He says.

“Yes?”

He pushes the door open, locks eyes with Mycroft who is stretched out in his old bathtub and immediately steps out of the bathroom again.

“I’m sorry,” he says through the door. “I’ve your tea, I didn’t realize that – ”

“It’s alright,” Mycroft says, “I’d love some tea.”

So Greg steps back in, hands Mycroft his cup. There’s enough bubbles that it’s not like he can see anything anyway. “I’m really sorry,” he says again.

“It’s really alright,” Mycroft laughs into his steaming cup. “I’ve been away at school since I was eight and you’re in the rugby team. Nothing we haven’t seen before.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Oh,” now Mycroft blushes, “the jerseys. Apologies, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, no, I’m jealous.” Greg sees Mycroft frown, so he adds: “I’m going to be a detective one day, and you pick up on things so fast. What else did you see?”

“You wish for me to – ”

“Tell me what my room says about me.” Greg grins.  _Then teach me so I can ace my tests._

“If you’re sure,” Mycroft is still frowning, but he does go on. “You’re 23, working for the police, ambitious and hard-working, from a loving family that lives up north, possibly Manchester. I mentioned the rugby, you told me about the girlfriend, people think you’re a dog person but really you’d like a cat.”

Greg can’t stop grinning at him. “Fantastic, what else?” He doesn’t even register that he’s sitting on the side of the tub now, chatting with the naked boy in his bathroom like they’re old friends.

“Most recent holiday was to the south of France, you injured your wrist three to five months ago, you have a sibling you worry about.”

“God you’re good. Could you teach me that?”

Mycroft smiles up at him, shy but happy. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

“They normally tell you to stick it?”

“Something like that,” his eyes crinkle when he smiles properly.

“How’s the bath?” Greg asks, shifting positions on the uncomfortable edge so his arse doesn’t get too numb.

“You’ve not used it?”

“Couldn’t figure that out?” Greg teases, and Mycroft snorts into his tea.

“You’ve lived here for over a year, logic says you’d have used it by now.”

“Nah,” Greg’s cheeks are starting to hurt with all the smiling he’s doing. “I get bored easily, and I grew up with a bath. Never liked them.”

“You’re missing out,” Mycroft decides, “it’s a lovely tub.”

A bad idea pops up. “Did boarding school prepare you for a naked bloke joining you for a bath?”

“Being a practising homosexual did,” Mycroft challenges him, and Greg shrugs. It’d be hypocritical of him to mind.

“So can I?”

“Go ahead,” an elegant hand gesture suggests the side of the tub by the taps is all Greg’s. He shrugs off his clothes, tossing most of them in the hamper, and sinks down into the bubbles with a heavy sigh.

“Oh that is good,” he has to admit. “It’s deeper than the one we’ve back home I think.”

He stretches his legs out next to Mycroft’s, so they’re touching but not anywhere too inappropriate, and tries not to think about soft fuzzy legs now free of mud.

“Older baths are usually deeper,” Mycroft murmurs, leaning back with his eyes closed.

“The encyclopaedia of useless facts, naked in my tub,” Greg teases, and when Mycroft looks at him, worried and strange, he grins wider. Softer. Until Mycroft relaxes again.

“Turn on the tap, will you?”

“Getting cold?”

Mycroft just hums, so Greg lets the hot water tap run, until it gets uncomfortable for him. He splashes his feet to get the water to travel around and laughs when Mycroft starts doing the same, tries not to think about how the bubbles are fading and his cock is floating, moving as the water moves.

“D’you have siblings?” Greg asks, relaxing his head against the wall.

“Two,” Mycroft opens an eye to look at him, “why?”

“Used to have baths with my sister when I was little,” Greg explains. “Wondered if that’s a universal thing.”

“I suppose it would be,” Mycroft keeps looking at him, “but I’m seven years older than my brother. My sister is one year younger than him.”

“They still live at home?”

“My brother is at school too, my sister...” A complicated expression crosses Mycroft’s face. “She can’t live at home.”

“Oh,” Greg’s not sure what to say to that, so he just smiles warmly and squeezes Mycroft’s leg. They’re quiet for a long while, relaxing into the heat and the smell of Greg’s bath & shower gel.

“Wait.” Greg sits up. “Did you use my My Little Pony Bath & Shower Gel for this?”

Mycroft cracks a little smile. “I did, why?”

“It was a joke present from some mates,” Greg feels the need to explain, “I’m not like...”

“What?”

“Hiding a child somewhere,” Greg laughs.

The disappearing bubbles trigger another thought, and Greg leans over the edge of the bathtub to read in the basket... over there... “Gotcha.”

He holds up the bath bomb with a face full of triumph. It was a birthday present from his sister, last year, and he’d never used it. The expression on Mycroft’s face when he sees the pink ball is priceless.

“’S called a sex bomb!” Greg grins, and he drops it in carelessly. It does smell nice.

“You’re really not bothered at all, are you?” Mycroft smiles fondly.

With what? Greg tries to think on what he should be bothered by and knows he’s making a face when Mycroft laughs.

“Don’t worry. Did you buy yourself the sex bomb?”

“Nah, my sister. From Lush I think, those fancy stores that make the whole street smell.”

The bath bomb fizzes between them and turns all the water a milky pink. It smells great and feels even better on his skin, so he relaxes back and breathes it in.

Mycroft’s toes wriggle so he turns the hot tap on again, winks across the tub.

“I fear we’ll have to get out soon,” Mycroft sighs, looking like he wants to do that precisely never.

“Yeah?”

“My hands and toes are quite pruned, soon the rest of me will follow.”

“And then you’ll look 80 at the ripe old age of seventeen.”

Mycroft laughs heartily. “You think I’m seventeen?”

“Just hoping you’re not younger,” Greg admits. “Y’seem clever enough to’ve been at uni by sixteen.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft is still laughing, it’s making the water move in shaky little bursts, “I graduated secondary at seventeen, they wouldn’t have let me skip more grades.”

“One of the awkward ones, were you?”

An eyeroll, “thought that’d be obvious by now.”

“So? You know how old I am, tell me about yourself.”

“I’m nineteen, studying PPE at UCL. I’m not a runner normally but it helps build stamina for fencing, I grew up in Surrey, prefer cats, and have never broken any bones.”

Greg smiles at him, funky child. “Your last holiday?”

“Summer course in Beijing.”

“Hard worker,” Greg decides. Mycroft blinks at him, but shrugs to agree. “Shy but less so since moving away from home. Fond of the brother, worried about the sister. Not close to your parents at all.”

“A people person,” Mycroft tells him. “You think about my personality and motivations more than the facts of my life.”

“Profiling,” Greg shrugs back. “If I’m to be the best detective the yard has ever seen, I’ll have to know people.”

Mycroft’s stomach growls and Greg snorts. “Alright, that’s it for us.”

He gets out first, careful to finish most of his dripping before getting onto the bath mat. Wrapped in his bathrobe, he hands Mycroft the clean towel, then turns around to drain the bath. When he stands up again, Mycroft has his back turned towards him and is drying off his long legs, showing the fuzzy ginger hairs go up all the way to his lower back. They’re plastered against his body where he hasn’t dried himself off yet, and when he shifts the light hits him just so. Freckles, all over his shoulders.

“I haven’t much in the way of food,” Greg apologizes, “but I can offer you reheated take out if you’re interested?”

Mycroft turns around, holding the towel so that it covers most of his body, to read his face. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“It’s chicken and veg.”

“Thank you.”

The bathroom light makes his hair shine coppery, curly from how it dried while they were chatting in the tub. Pale shoulders, long elegant neck. Greg nods.

“I’ll toss it in the microwave and get you something clean to wear.”

He rummages through clothing stacks and finds clean underwear, joggers, and a cotton t-shirt from a run he participated in, three years ago. He hands them over to Mycroft, then gets to work with more tea and take-out containers.

“Oh,” Mycroft sighs when he gets back from dressing. “That smells amazing.” He gets one of the containers out of the beeping microwave, finds a pair of chopsticks in the take-out drawer like he’s been living here for years, and fishes out a piece of chicken. It makes Greg want to ask him to never leave.

“Go sit,” Greg nods, “I’ll finish the tea and join you.”

With two more mugs of the nice tea and the container with fried rice, Greg joins Mycroft on the sofa. He’s sitting cross-legged in the corner, his bare feet tucked under his legs. Eating from the container.

“Swap,” Greg demands, holding out his own container, and they trade boxes. Greg has had dinner, so he only picks out some pieces of pepper and baby corn, before giving the container back to Mycroft.

“I’m sorry for imposing like this,” Mycroft tells him, looking up through his eyelashes before going back to his food, “I’ll make it up to you.”

“That’s alright,” Greg hangs over the back of the sofa and finds his leaning tower of clean socks, picks out the ones with bacon strips. “Hold up, posh.”

He unrolls the socks, holding one open in front of Mycroft so he just has to stick his foot in, then helping him put the other sock on too.

“You’re too kind,” Mycroft mumbles around a particularly large piece of chicken. “I don’t think I’ve ever been treated this well.”

Greg laughs, “and here I was thinking you’d have rich boys lined up down the street to kiss your feet and call you pretty.”

“’M not pretty,” Mycroft blushes fiercely and hides his face behind the carton. “And I usually have far better manners, I promise.”

“You’re allowed to relax and pig out after training,” Greg promises. “You’ve earned it.”

“Hate running,” Mycroft admits.

“But you like fencing.” Another sly look through eyelashes, “you have to think about it, strategize. You like winning.”

A solemn nod. A bus drives by and the headlights move through the window, changing the way Mycroft’s face looks in angles and planes.

“Mycroft?” Greg asks, waits for him to look up. “We’re friends, right?”

“We will be,” Mycroft frowns. “I’ll be back for my bike, and to return these clothes washed and folded. And then I’ll treat you to dinner, to thank you for your kindness.”

“And then we’ll be friends?” Greg smiles and lets his head fall onto the back of the sofa. He’s turned sideways to look at Mycroft better, but doesn’t dare pull up his legs because he’s still wearing only his bathrobe. Mycroft nods again. A little worried now.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Greg swallows. “I think I should never get back together with Marie.”

“Because she cheats?”

“She called me before going with someone else, but that’s not it. I don’t think she’ll ever be happy monogamous.”

“Nothing wrong with consensual non-monogamy,” Mycroft says, but his eyes look sad.

“It’s not for me though. I'm not fond of the sleeping together as friends thing.”

“No.” Mycroft takes a deep breath, sets down the container and picks up his tea instead. “I’m not like this – normally.”

Greg thinks on that. He’s not normally this relaxed around strangers either, but he thinks maybe Mycroft is usually poised and dressed up and possibly a little stand-offish. “Do you want to be?”

“Not at work,” Mycroft admits, “but I am having a good time.”

“Good,” Greg smiles, “that’s all we need.”

Outside, the church bell makes one low _dong_. Midnight already. Mycroft crawls a little closer. His voice is endlessly gentle. “Why did you ask if we are friends?”

Greg looks at him and gathers all his courage. “Stay.”

“The night?” Mycroft looks around, eyes the double bed, looks back at the sofa. Greg swallows and Mycroft looks at him again. He’s folded up on the sofa. Leggy and soft. Warm in Greg’s clothes. His throat is too dry to speak, so he lifts up one shoulder. _As long as you like_.

“More tea?” He croaks finally, and Mycroft shakes no.

“What are you really trying to say?”

Greg isn’t sure, stuck in his throat are half sentences like _you’re the most_ and _if I could just_ , something like _would you let me?_ He shakes his head and to his utter mortification finds his eyes are burning. He gets up to get his duvet and change into pyjamas, draping the heavy covers over both of them on the sofa when he’s back. He knows he’s sitting closer to Mycroft now and tries to tell himself that’s fine because the duvet isn’t big enough to cover the whole sofa anyway and it’s warmer when they’re together too and he’s so tired of his own excuses. He turns on the telly. Outside it’s started to rain. Some nature documentary, endless plains of ice and snow.

“They call me Antarctica,” Mycroft whispers, sitting a little closer, shivering in his shirt until he pulls up the duvet to cover his shoulders. “At uni.”

“For the cold-blooded thing?”

“I’m not – a warm person.”

“Hah,” Greg laughs, and he leans his head down on Mycroft’s shoulder. “But when a complete stranger needs comforting you stay on their lumpy couch to watch telly you’re not interested in.”

Mycroft hums and leans back a little, with his head. “I’m an excellent judge of character.”

They both end up getting a bit caught up in the natural splendour and watch the documentary through to the end. By then it’s almost one in the morning.

“Are you going to make me stay on the sofa?” Mycroft asks, hoarse.

“No,” Greg is feeling a sort of breathless himself. “I can even offer a clean toothbrush.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft’s eyes shine happily when he looks at Greg, “Peppa Pig toothpaste?”

“He jokes!” Greg grins, “I might have a Sesame Street band-aid lying around if you’ve any blisters from running? Did you hurt yourself when the bike broke?”

“Your sex bath sufficiently soothed my aches, thank you.”

Greg can’t believe that it could be so easy, the gentle flirting while having a cuddle on the sofa. Being warm and safe and comfortable around a human body. Someone kind and smart. Posh. He can’t stop grinning, not while he fights down the duvet to go to the bathroom again, not while he finds a wrapped toothbrush in his cupboard, definitely not while he finds Mycroft a Superman glass to have water from. Mycroft almost chokes on the toothpaste when he sees it, and Greg’s proud grin gets worse.

“I’ll brush my teeth if you’re done dying,” he suggests. Then when Mycroft leaves the bathroom with a swat to his upper arm, he shouts down the hall: “oh, don’t forget to check your phone!”

He brushes his teeth and walks into the other room again to find Mycroft’s silhouette outlined by that strange orange light of a city that never really gets dark. It's still raining. He’s staring at his phone; his shoulders are an unhappy line. Looks like he belongs here.

“Did you forget to tell your parents you’re home late?” Greg teases gently, looking out the window. Doesn’t want to seem like he’s prying. The street is wet and reflects the lights. He knows exactly what it’d smell like if he would open the window.

“I live alone,” Mycroft says, and Greg turns his head to lean his forehead on his shoulder. Mycroft smells like the bath bomb, laundry powder, warm man. One more deep breath and walking away backwards. Greg puts the duvet back on the bed. He turns off all the lights, locks the door, crawls in. He doesn’t want to know what kind of messages he’ll have by now; what kind of pictures are being sent back and forth in the WhatsApp group. Is far happier somewhere warm and cosy with someone he likes anyway. Mycroft joins him with a minimal amount of fuss, only pausing to take the bacon socks off and lay them carefully on the bedside table. It’s a strangely intimate sight, and it’s obvious he’s blushing even though the only light in the room is coming in around the curtains.

“I don’t like sleeping in socks,” Mycroft defends himself, and Greg just laughs and buries deeper under the covers.

“I normally sleep naked,” Greg confesses, “and alone. If I do something or get too close, just elbow me or something.”

“I’m sure I won’t mind,” Mycroft says, a strange light in his eyes as he looks up at Greg. It takes conscious thought to not touch his face and Greg tries to play it off with a joke.

“Got a good look earlier?” He says, hearing how his voice breaks.

“Don’t do that,” Mycroft’s voice is soft but his mouth is disappointed. His forehead creases. He looks away. Greg feels misery in his stomach. Heavy and cold.

“I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to,” he swallows away his stress, “that was really cruel of me, I’m very sorry.”

Mycroft looks at him again. More surprised than anything now. His face is so expressive even sideways and halfway sunken into a pillow.

“You’re so beautiful,” it leaves Greg in a rush, “your face says so much, I want to say things just to watch you respond to them.” Mycroft looks more surprised now, and a little worried.

“You smell nice,” Greg says, and Mycroft’s eyes open wide, flick around Greg’s face. His breathing sounds shallow and Greg wants to be closer. So much closer.

“There are more fake flamingos in the world than real ones,” nostrils twitch. Mouth a little open.

“I would like to kiss you very much.” Heartbreak.

“Greg?” Sorrow in his eyes, his mouth.

“I’m bisexual,” Greg says, looking right at Mycroft, feeling something loosen in his chest as he says it out loud. He breathes in deep and has to squeeze his eyes shut as he breathes out. Careful fingers on his face make him look up again. Mycroft’s face is closer than ever, but the small kiss to the corner of his mouth catches Greg by surprise anyway. They lean back, looking at each other for permission.

“You too,” Mycroft promises. “Beautiful. Expressive. Kissable.”

This, this part Greg knows. This part is comfortable. He pulls Mycroft closer by his hips and leans over him a little when he kisses him, proper and deep. Shows his want, asks for permission in letting his hand rest on Mycroft’s hip before slipping under his shirt a little. Breaks for air and pulls off his own shirt. Mycroft’s hands scratch his chest, pull him closer, hold him. He licks Mycroft’s ear, kisses his neck, smells his hair. Shifts so he can kneel between Mycroft’s legs before kissing his way down soft cotton. Pauses to smell Mycroft under his arms, his own deodorant, to scratch his chin across the strip of stomach between the shirt and joggers. Goosebumps.

“Oh,” Mycroft sighs, and it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. He trails his hands down Mycroft’s slim strong legs, up under the joggers by his ankles. His feet are cold and bony. His stomach rolls with desire and Greg kisses him just below his navel, only to be treated to twitching hips and hitching gasps.

“May I?” Greg breathes into warm soft joggers. He smells laundry soap and wants far, far more, even as he bites the fabric. Mycroft is hard and straining against the layers. Hands pull his hair, grab at his shoulders. He gets dragged up by his jaw and long legs wrap around him as they kiss. He wraps his arms around Mycroft’s waist and feels how they are close and snug. The hands that play with his hair fondly, pushing it away from his face, are gentle and adoring. A car alarm down the street startles both of them and Greg sits up a little.

“Did I hurt you?” Their noses had bumped together but not hard enough for the tears in Mycroft’s eyes. He shakes no.

“Tell me you want this,” Mycroft pleads. “That it’s been on your mind since you first saw me, that you mean it, that you like me.”

“I want this,” Greg promises, petting Mycroft’s face, “wanted you since I first saw you sweaty and muddy in your running clothes. I mean it, I like you.”

Mycroft’s face says _probably not_ , so Greg hoovers over him, kisses him all over his face as carefully as he can.

“I want to taste your cock,” he tells Mycroft, and watches him shiver, feels him moan. “Want to actually look at you while you’re naked and in front of me.”

“Do it,” Mycroft wrestles himself up to sitting and takes off the shirt. Wriggles out of the joggers and pants. Greg rolls him over to his stomach and catches a worried look over a freckled shoulder. “I don’t – ”

“’M pretty big on consent,” Greg leans over Mycroft, kisses him over his shoulder until he relaxes back into the pillow. “Want to kiss you,” Greg kisses Mycroft’s neck and gets a little mewl for his effort. Licks the freckles and feels Mycroft push against the mattress under him. He’s not wanted to explore someone all over like this before, hasn’t really had a chance to either, and bites at the skin of Mycroft’s upper arms gently before kissing the bumps of his spine, his hands soothing up and down Mycroft’s legs. He feels expanding ribs breathe faster and faster, nips at cold skin over a hip, breathes warm skin of lower back. Bites at hairy buttocks, fuzzy thighs. Mycroft’s feet are still cold so he rearranges the duvet to cover them.

“Stop me,” he says, kissing the last bumps of Mycroft’s spine, wriggling his tongue at the very end of it. A hand touches the side of his face and he looks up.

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft promises, “it’s just that I’d like to see you.”

Greg nods and gives Mycroft the space he needs to turn around, isn’t surprised when he gets pulled back in for more kissing and feels shy fingers steal their way under the waistband of his pyjama trousers. “Go for it,” he whispers into the kiss, and it takes some effort but they get his trousers and pants off without breaking the kiss. The cold air hits Greg and he lies back down onto Mycroft, for warmth, for comfort. Legs wrap around waist again and line them up together, which feels amazing and transformative and also like it’s going to be too much too fast.

“Let me taste you?” Mycroft’s eyes fly open but he nods. Greg pulls the duvet up again from where it’s been pushed to the end of the bed, arranging it over his back so Mycroft can be comfortable. He hooks his hands up under his knees and kneels down between them, kissing soft sensitive skin. Hairy legs. Thatchy hair. The smell of clean warm man. Heavy hot balls, purpling eager cock. Salty arousal. His hands shake when he takes the head into his mouth, and he steadies them by holding onto Mycroft’s thighs. Sucks a little to experiment and realizes he knows this part too. Moving with the twitches and thrusts, listening for the sighs and puffs and groans. Tasting and licking and sucking and going a little deeper every time. An ill-timed thrust hits the back of his throat and his stomach contracts unpleasantly.

“Gods,” Mycroft’s hand is on his face again, “I’m so sorry.”

Greg lets go with a pop, “don’t be.” Wipes away his blowjob tears. Gets back to work. He notices the saliva that is dripping down Mycroft’s cock and wants _more_ , so he lets go again and suckles on his balls, feels them move in his mouth, hard cock twitching against his face. He pulls Mycroft closer still and dares to look up at him. He is a _picture_ and Greg finds himself utterly distracted by it. Pink open mouth, flushed cheeks, wild hair, hands gripping the sheets. Deep desperate eyes. With a growl Mycroft sits up and pushes Greg down, the slide of their skins is delicious, his neck tastes like sweat and sex bomb. The knees next to Greg squeeze tight, their cocks line up.

"Oh," Greg wraps his arms around Mycroft and scratches his skin gently, moving his hips in time with their kissing. Mycroft groans into his mouth and his eyes close as if he’s hurting, but when Greg stills his hips he gasps.

“Keep – keep going, going to – ”

Greg uses one hand to keep their bodies together, the other to hold Mycroft’s head close and against his neck. The fingers digging into his shoulders tell him to keep going and he plants his feet on the mattress, pushes up. Mycroft cries into his neck and he squeezes his eyes shut, sets a rhythm. Up, up, up.

Mycroft starts shivering almost immediately, whimpering against his neck and when his stomach and thighs start shaking Greg pushes harder, chases his own pleasure. Mycroft comes first, mouth hot and wet against Greg’s neck, come hot and shocking between them and more than anything, that’s what has Greg push his head back into the mattress, clench his thighs, arching, coming.

“Ah,” he sighs, trying to relax his muscles, to open his eyes, to let go of Mycroft. “Fuck.”

“Don’t move,” Mycroft whines, sleepy and heavy.

“That’s going to be extremely painful tomorrow,” Greg laughs, but he’s never been this content and finds he can’t even bear to move the hand that is still cradling Mycroft close.

“Alright,” Mycroft sighs, clearly the smarter one of the two of them, “what if I use that shirt you gave me to mop up the worst, then we both go clean up a little in the bathroom, and we meet back here to sleep.”

“Only if you’ll be naked,” Greg decides. “And my neighbours don’t often come up here, but be a bit sneaky on the landing?”

Mycroft giggles against his throat. “You can’t be serious. How could I be sneaky like this?”

Greg joins him in laughing, it is a ridiculous mental image, come-covered sex-reeking creaking across the landing so Mrs. Thomas doesn’t see more than she ever wanted to. As he’s laughing he notices that he needs to keep very still to make sure they won’t need to change the sheets too, which makes him laugh harder. Thankfully Mycroft notices and pushes a shirt between the two of them, lightning quick.

“I’ll go first,” he decides.

“You’re on top of me,” Greg laughs, and it sets both of them off again. He can’t help himself and pulls Mycroft in for a poor attempt at kissing. Laughing into each other’s mouths. Finally, Mycroft pulls away, stretches out his legs carefully, and leaves while looking about exaggeratedly. Greg joins him in the bathroom, steps into the bathtub to run water across his stomach, doing the same to Mycroft when he joins.

“My Little Pony Bath & Shower Gel?” He asks as politely as possible, and Mycroft accepts gracefully, with a little nod. “I can never figure out what it’s supposed to smell like.”

Mycroft pulls his best aristocratic face and leans over to smell Greg’s stomach. “Notes of... strawberry. Perhaps a touch of raspberry? Some... flowery hints.”

Greg is laughing so much he’ll be getting the hiccoughs if he’s not careful. “Good year?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft sucks in a breath and smacks as if tasting it. Strokes his chin thoughtfully. “A dry but sunny year, perfect for the ripening of the ponies.”

“Yeah? A rich My Little Pony harvest?”

“Oh absolutely,” Mycroft turns off the shower and dries them both off with the same towel he used earlier. “They’re tastiest if they’re picked before the rains come.”

Greg snorts and wraps his arms around Mycroft, “you’re magnificent.” He kisses the side of his forehead and feels Mycroft slowly relax into the hug.

“Back to bed.”

They both look about the landing as if they’re expecting Mrs. Thomas is going to jump out from the shadows with a HA! Then dive into the bed after locking the door. It’s even colder now that they’re naked and freshly clean. Greg lets himself be pulled in and buries his face into Mycroft’s chest gratefully. Cold hands play with his ears, scratch his back.

“Are you going to regret this in the morning?” He hears Mycroft breathe. He leans back and sees sorrow again.

“Who did this to you?” He asks, and decides to ask again some other time when Mycroft shakes his head. “I’m not, I’ll put it on Facebook. I’ll call my mum. I’ll call my sister right now.”

Mycroft is smiling, crinkles by his eyes. “At two in the morning?”

“She’ll be happy for me. Been nagging me about finding a girlfriend for ages, and we’re an open-minded bunch. She'll just be relieved.”

“And the girlfriend?”

“Marie?” Not his girlfriend, never was. “Her opinion is irrelevant, but my friends are good people.”

“I wear suits,” Mycroft tells him, expression serious as anything, and Greg can’t suppress his groan. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s hot,” Greg promises, “fuck, please tell me you wear waistcoats?”

Mycroft’s mouth pulls to the side, his whole face cracks open. “I even have a pocket watch.”

“Ah shit,” Greg buries his face closer. “You’ll have to get one of those electric fly squatters.”

“What?” Mycroft laughs, “whatever for?”

“To zap me when I try to rut against your leg,” Greg tries to keep his expression serious but laughs too.

“We’re still on for dinner right?” Mycroft asks, after a pause that’s just a little too long.

“’Course,” Greg promises, seals it with a kiss. “I’ll get you your spare key then.”

Mycroft stares at him, mouth a little open.

“Now hush,” Greg wraps the duvet around them tighter. “I’m an old man and if we’re looking for a round two in the morning I’ll need my rest.”

**Author's Note:**

> This premise literally came to me in a dream, and I've spent most of the day trying to capture what it was like in my dream, atmosphere-wise (it's 5 pm and I've not had lunch). I hope you enjoyed it, thank you for reading!


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